


Slow the Tide

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-27
Updated: 2007-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:55:41
Rating: Teen & Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Sam and Dean at the beach.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Slow the Tide  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Notes: For [ ](http://lyra-wing.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lyra-wing.livejournal.com/)**lyra_wing** 's birthday. She asked for Sam and Dean at the beach; I'm not sure this is quite what she wanted, but I hope it works. The title is from a very crappy country song that I can't get out of my head. I accept both fear and pity at my conundrum.  
  
  
  
They stop after fifteen hours of driving, warm air gluing their t-shirts to their backs as they tumble out of the car, weariness having long since given way to bone-deep exhaustion. The Impala rumbles and dies, clicking and hissing as it settles down, and Sam jams on flipflops just before they go tumbling over the scrub, the sharp grass poking their ankles.  
  
It's night and the moon is a murky sliver in the sky, covered mostly by clouds, and the waves crash on the shore with soft angry whispers that are like thunder in the back of Sam's mind. They walk over the sand wordlessly, both of them reeling on the soft ground, grabbing each other for balance; finally Sam feels wet under his feet and he pulls Dean down, both of them collapsing on the wave-packed sand.  
  
They lie there for several minutes, arms and legs tangled, and the waves wash over them, soft and cool in contrast with the oddly dry air.  
  
“This is nice,” Dean says finally, quietly, his tone mixing in with the not-stillness of the night.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says in reply, and tightens his arms.  
  
The first kiss comes at dawn, when the water turns red and the air turns cool. Soft wet joining of lips, gentle sucking and hands moving, pushing, so that when the first jogger comes past Sam's on top of Dean and their lips are sealed together.  
  
He doesn't notice them, doesn't even glance their way; on this flat warm beach they're invisible. Driftwood, maybe, or a seashell; nothing out of the ordinary because no one bothers to glance over and check.  
  
“C'mere,” he says, and he's grabbing Dean and rolling them farther, into the waves, dunking Dean and laughing into the growing light when Dean splutters indignantly.  
  
“Son of a -”And it's Sam who's dunked now, the cool water closing in over him, rushing into every nook and cranny. He grimaces and laughs, shaking his head. “Bitch,” he says, grinning.  
  
Dean jumps him in response, hands on Sam's shoulders and lips finding Sam's again. The sun turns dawn to morning, bright and true. Sam smiles and arches against Dean, grinding their cocks together through layers of wet clothing.  
  
“God,” Sam says, unable to stop himself from staring up at Dean, who laughs and shakes his head, droplets of light catching the new sun.  
  
Dean's lips find his ear, nipping gently as he slows their hips to a rhythmic grind. “Freak,” he breathes, and this time it's Sam's turn to laugh, skating his fingers over Dean's wet face, into his hair. The strands are slick and they squeak when Sam rubs them.  
  
“I learned from the best,” he says, smirking.  
  
They let the waves carry them onto the shore, depositing them back on the sand; they're soaking wet and silent, waterlogged clothes dragging at them as they stumble to their feet. They move past the lifeguard hurrying to her post, past the fat tourists with their red-faced sleepy-eyed children, past the skinny young men and the primped untouchable young women.  
  
The hood of the Impala is warm from new sun, almost hot enough to sting Sam's back when Dean pushes him onto it. Salt dries on their skin and the seagulls, the frantically moving water, the laughing innocent people, fills their ears as they kiss: slow and fast, deep and shallow, feeling the roll of the ocean between them.  
  
The tide brings in sediment, steals away stability. It leaves casualties and miracles, driftwood and crumbled buildings, in its wake.  
  
They trade with it: holding it back, pulling it in, as it suits them, as they need it.  
  
They can't hold back the ocean, not the two of them; not yet, at any rate. But they try.  
 


End file.
